Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“Get. That. SUV—”
“How do I—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Drop your haul and stop the fucking thing.”
The command was followed with all the gumption of a teenager, a muted metal clanging chiming on both sides of the moron, after which Lash’s one and only inductee into the Lessening Society loafed out into the middle of the road. As the slayer put both hands up and winced, like he was trying to bring a baby buggy to a standstill and worried about his fucking shins, Lash wondered how, in a city of two-million-plus humans, he’d managed to recruit such a total waste of space.
But the lame-ass got the job done.
The blacked-out Suburban hit its brakes, and there was no moment of confusion for its driver and passenger. Without missing a beat, two men put down their windows, stuck their guns out—and opened fire, the pop-pop-pop echoing around the decrepit Grand Canyon of the street.
Now that is more like it, Lash thought.
His slayer was hit in the chest too many times to count, a three-D torso target getting practiced on by a pair of experts. And talk about cinematic. Spotlit by the headlights, the security-guard-now-lesser’s arms raised up as he jerked to the rhythm of the impacts, the assault salsa driving him back until he fell over onto the pavement.
As the stinging aroma of gunpowder and weed replaced the neighborhood’s piss scent, laughter bubbled out of those open windows.
When Lash dropped his duffles, the driver looked over at the clanking, and a pair of dark eyes narrowed in a way that suggested a new target had been isolated and identified. It was not possible to assess the man’s height, but the shoulders were thick and so was the tattooed neck. More than that, the cunning stare and the way the guy was so comfortable using his firearm affirmed value.
“You owe me,” Lash said.
The human shifted the muzzle of his autoloader over so that it was pointed toward Lash’s torso. “You want some?”
“Yes,” Lash drawled, “I do.”
There was a moment of pause, as if the response was a surprise. And then the human began to empty what was left in his clip.
Walking forward, Lash put out his palm and collected the slugs one by one, their trajectories shifting as they were called home by the center of his hand, the jingling sweet and soft as the projectiles collected in a little lead puppy pile.
The trigger finger that had been so busy eased off, and as a swill of gaseous emissions curled up from the tip of the gun, Lash closed a grip around the payload.
“What the fuck…” the human breathed.
On the far side of the driver, the passenger was pulling a pole-axe, too, his stare wide in the glow of the dash.
“Do you want to live forever,” Lash said in a low voice.
“Get the fuck back, man—”
“I asked you a question.” Lash stopped at point-blank range, and to help things along, he positioned the human’s arm so that the muzzle of the gun was precisely in the center of his own chest. “What is your answer. Do you want to live forever.”
When the driver tried to yank the weapon away, Lash put his thumb on the forefinger that was wrapped around the trigger—and forced the discharge of the last bullet in the magazine.
The sound was loud at such close range, the impact such that Lash’s entire body jerked. Ah, yes, .45s packed quite a punch.
He held those dark eyes the entire time, not even blinking.
On the far side of the center console, the guy riding shotgun decided he was done: “I’m out!”
As the man fumbled for the door release, Lash glanced over and willed the lock to hold tight. Meanwhile, out in front of the grille, the lesser who’d played Smith & Wesson pincushion sat up on the pavement and pulled open the hunting jacket that draped his soft body. Looking down at his sternum, he probed the black ooze that was staining the front of his camouflage t-shirt.
“What… the fuck is…” The driver did not finish. Could not finish.
Prepared to settle the debate, Lash worked his shoulders, rolling them back and forth; then he swallowed, over and over again. Finally, he coughed into his hand.
“Would you like this back,” he said as he offered the man’s bullet to him.
The guy made the sign of the cross over his sternum. “Madre de Dios. What are you.”
Over the flapping of the passenger, who was pumping the door handle like he was performing CPR on that side of the SUV, Lash said, “You don’t need to worry about that. All you have to answer is one simple question.”
“Wh… wha… what?”
“Do you want to live forever.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was around ten a.m. the following morning that Beth, née Randall, mated of Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, rushed down the subterranean tunnel to the back entrance into the training center. When she got to the reinforced steel door, she shifted her son onto her other hip so she could punch in a passcode. As the copper lock retracted, she glanced over her shoulder with a sickening feeling.